


Ten became twenty

by ThirdEyeOpening



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Self-Harm, back story, seriously this is heavy on the self harm, trigger warning, you will cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirdEyeOpening/pseuds/ThirdEyeOpening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home from a date to find Sherlock in a shocking predicament. After a nightmare filled night, the detective must face john and the vice he's carried with him all these years.</p>
<p>((A rather cross John came stomping up the stairs and flung open the door to the flat. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it onto the chair. Seconds later flinging himself onto the sofa and deflating into the soft cushions. He lay unmoving for a few minutes, his face pressed against the fabric of the sofa, arms hugging one of the throw pillows tightly to his chest. Evidently, his date didn't go as planned. Suddenly his mind was pulled from the unfortunate events of his evening to an unspoken question. Where was Sherlock?))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discovery

Soon one became ten. Then ten became twenty. The pull of the razor as it slowly split his skin sent shivers through his whole body. Leaving inch long slits all along his left forearm. Blood had already began to create red bumps along each angry cut. Slowly the bumps grew larger until finally spilling over and staining his pale skin as they raced down to drip tiny specks onto the tiles. Sighing deeply, the detectives hand went limp, dropping the slightly stained razor, barely aware of the tiny clink it made as it made contact with the bathroom floor. Sherlock tipped his head back a little as his mind was completely ripped away and all that remained in his head was the strong throbbing of his arm. He sat on the cool tiles, leaning against the wall, until he was on the verge of sleep, not from blood loss, but from how calm his mind and body had become. He was so drowsy, he never heard the front door of 221B open and slam shut in frustration. 

A rather cross John came stomping up the stairs and flung open the door to the flat. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it onto the chair. Seconds later flinging himself onto the sofa and deflating into the soft cushions. He lay unmoving for a few minutes, his face pressed against the fabric of the sofa, arms hugging one of the throw pillows tightly to his chest. Evidently, his date didn't go as planned. Suddenly his mind was pulled from the unfortunate events of his evening to an unspoken question. Where was Sherlock? 

Rising slowly, he sat up and glanced around the room for the first time since arriving home. The room was empty. He noticed Sherlocks violin resting on the chair Sherlock had claimed as his. Strange, Sherlock always took such great care of his instrument, he must have needed to leave in a hurry to have neglected it. John pulled out his phone and shot the detective a fast text.

Where are you? -JW

Before John could even stand, he heard a faint vibrating noise somewhere in the flat. It was Sherlocks phone. Johns brow furrowed at the thought. Sherlock would never leave the flat without his phone. The faint sound ended within seconds and Johns head twisted towards the detectives room. Sherlock couldn't possibly be sleeping, though John as he slid from his his position on the sofa and made his way through the kitchen. Sherlocks bedroom door was closed, as usual. John raised a fist and knocked softly.

"Sherlock? Are you in there?" 

The army doctor received only silence as an answer. Slowly he turned the door knob and opened the creaky door an inch. "Sherlock?" When he was met yet again with silence, he opened the door all the way and turned his attention to the bed. 

Only Sherlock wasn't in it. The detectives phone was laying on the side table by the bed. His eyes darted around the room but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. About to leave, Johns eye was caught by the light that came from the door that connected the bathroom to Sherlocks room. Through the tinted glass John couldn't see any movement. Fairly positive the younger man wasn't in a very personal position, he swung open the door and was awe struck at what he saw.

It felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs and he was left feeling utterly lost for a moment. The detective was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall and the side of the tub. His left arm facing up, showing the brilliant red marks that littered his flesh. The bleeding had stopped, but his arm was smudged in rusty smears of dried blood. They weren't very deep, but there was many. Mentally shaking himself, John was flung into doctor mode and kneeled beside the pale man, shaking his shoulders softly. The detective shifted a bit and opened his heavy eyes half an inch. John could see the confusion in his face as his mind made its way back into place. Very suddenly Sherlock realized what had happened, he had been caught.

"J-John… I-"

"Shh, Sherlock, its all right, I'm going to take a look at your arm now, okay?" Sherlock only stared at him. 

Taking that as an okay, John lifted the bloodied arm softly and inspected it. The cuts where shallow and none needed stitches. As he began dabbing off the dried mess, his mind was racing around like mad trying to comprehend the situation. Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes, was sitting in a heap on the floor of their bathroom with an arm riddled with angry gashes. And scars to, as John cleaned of more of the red blood, he noticed faint white lines covering the mans arm, others were pink from different stages of healing. The doctor didn't let his thoughts show in his actions as he cleaned and bandaged the arm in clean wrapping. When he was done an awkward silence hung in the air. Sherlock had came down from the pain high as his arm was being looked after. He stared, slightly wide-eyed at the corner of the room. Frantically trying to come up with an excuse as to why his best friend just found him bloody on the bathroom floor. 

"John, I-" 

"I should go…" John said slowly, cutting him off again. Standing up from where he had been beside Sherlock, he slowly made his way out of the bathroom through the way he came in, leaving a very shocked detective still on the floor.

He sat in the bathroom for a few moments before he pushed himself off the ground with his right arm and peeked out of the bathroom door towards John, who was standing by the kettle, staring at it like he had forgotten how to use it. Sherlock decided if John wasn't going to talk about what happened then he was perfectly alright with that. Swiftly, he pulled the sleeve of his shirt over the bandages and walked over to the sofa, flopping himself down in his natural way. The high from the pain long gone, leaving only the sting of his wounds as they were pulled and stretches as he rolled over the face the back cushion. 

He heard the kettle clip into action from the kitchen and within minutes it whistled away loudly. Tracking Johns movement, he listened as the doctor lifted two mugs from the shelf and set them on the counter. He sighed softly as he heard the shorter mans soft foot steps enter the living room and place a mug of green tea on the side table closest to Sherlock. Closing his eyes, he snuggled further into the warmth of the cushions and zoned out as John absent-mindedly picked up the paper he'd already read that day. Clearly he had no idea what to say, so Sherlock made it easy for them both and swirled around strikingly fast and stood up as he grabbed the hot mug of tea, and made his was through the kitchen. He was almost to his room when John spoke up. His whole body tensed.

"We're talking about this tomorrow, Sherlock."


	2. That night

Sherlock didn't sleep well that night. 

He tossed and turned as he desperately fought for sleep. Eventually, he fell into an uneasy sleep after hours of mentally torturing himself over being so thoughtless. He was always so careful, how could he have not predicted that Johns date would not go well? He had met the woman and quickly realized her and John had nothing in common what so ever. She worked as a secretary in a law office, divorced, two young kids and a slight gambling problem. Dull. 

When he woke from his fitful sleep, he lay still, listening to the noises of the flat. Only there were none. 

Frowning, his mind instantly jumped to the conclusion he had been trying to push away all night.

He's left you. Whispered a voice in his head. Why would he want to stay after last night? He's no different than any one else, and he's left you like all the rest. He shook his head, trying to expel the voice. He knew John was different, he would stay. Wouldn't he? He hoped and prayed to a god he didn't believe in that John would stay.

His whole life, he had been alone. His parents were always working or away and by the time he was old enough to truly understand loneliness, Mycroft was already off at Uni. He grew up by himself, no one else to share his emotions to. His deductions didn't help. He couldn't help it, as soon as he saw something he would blurt it out for everyone to hear, subconsciously hoping that it would bring him attention. But the attention it brought was only frowns and mutters of "freak" or "weirdo". Over the years, the names he was called grew far worse, but "freak" always stayed. In his teen years he came across the term "sociopath", he liked the idea. He had grown to hate his emotions, they would just sit there, hard as stone in his stomach, or mock him as they flew around his head. He wanted them gone. To never have to deal with them again. 

So he ignored them, and never got involved with anyone so that the dreaded emotions could not flare up. Over time, they became unbearable. He was in his second year at Uni and had barely said more than the words "piss off" as his class mates mocked him for anything they could think of. He had let deductions slip out at times, enough for him to regain the status of a "freak." Thats around the time he discovered cocaine.

When walking back to his room from a late class, he bumped into a dark looking older man. He quickly deduced by the mans clean, expensive clothing yet poor well being that the man was a drug dealer. The mans pupils were blown wide and he had look of euphoria. Sherlock had thought of drugs, but he did not know how one found a dealer. Making a split quick decision, he bought a small bag of the drug, and hurried home. 

As soon as the drug hit his system, it swept his mind clean of everything.The only emotion present in his ever tortured brain was happiness. Restless, he left his room and spent the night wandering the streets, deducing everything he possibly could. He memorized streets and buildings. He felt… well he felt good! For once in his life, he didn't feel upset for being different. The highs would leave him clear of his emotions and even after the horrible come downs, the cell in his mind palace where he kept emotions, was empty. He felt neutral, numb, and he loved it. When his emotions grew too large for the mental prison, he would simply inject and in an instant they would fade and disappear.

Only, after a few years, when his drug use was beginning to take over and he was done with his schooling, he came face to face with a question he didn't consider. What do I do now? He had never thought about that. He tried job after job, but always grew bored of the simplicity. He would try, and quit, and try and quit. Until he had developed a bad name through several lines of work. 

The cocaine wasn't helping either. The more he quit, the more he somehow failed in his mind, and the feeling of worthlessness was growing larger, and he began spending more and more time buzzed out of his mind, wandering the streets of london, lost. One evening, as he was memorizing a new area of london, he stumbled upon a crime scene. Literally, he had his head turned up towards the sky, as if trying to memorize their patterns for once, when suddenly his feet hit a large crack on the side walk and he fell head first through the police line. He groaned into the concrete and as he began lifting himself up, he felt strong hands on his thin coat pulling him up.

"You alright, mate?" said a pleasant voice. 

"Fine," Sherlock mumbled and started to turn away, then something caught his eye. A flower. A few feet from where he was standing there was a very trampled lily. Narrowing his eyes, he shuffled forward towards the flower, grey eyes glancing about, finally coming to rest on the body of a man, about 20 feet away from him. He smirked as he bent to pick up the destroyed lily. "Have you any suspects?" he questioned smugly.

"Excuse me?" replied the detective, as he stared at the thin man.

"You heard me, I hate repeating myself." 

"Er.. No, we don't," he answered "all evidence points to a mugging gone wrong." 

Sherlock let out an amused huff, and turned towards the older man, holding the flower. His eyes glanced over him. Late thirties, married, problem in the marriage, won't last long, good detective, bad observer. He held out the flower and dropped it into the mans gloved hand. "Look at the body, early twenties, strong, dressed well. Pressed shirt, shined shoes. Obviously dressed for a date, was he walking to pick her up? Probable." Sherlock walked closer to the body but stopped a few feet away. "He has pollen on his right hand, the same pollen you will find on what is left of that lily. He was bringing her flowers. So did the muggers take the flowers as well as his wallet? Or did they take her… There are woman's foot prints against the opposite wall, and crushed petals. This was not a mugging, this was a kidnapping." 

The detective could do nothing but stare at the young man. Mentally registering what he had just heard. He blinked a few times before he could talk. "That was… Wait, who are you?" 

Sherlock practically skipped up to the detective, he felt like he had taken a fresh hit, he felt happy. He felt useful for some odd reason. "Sherlock Holmes" He replied smoothly, stepping into the light. Its was at this point that his eyes were exposed, his pupils still wide from the drug flowing through his veins. But he wasn't too worried, the man in from of him failed to notice even the most obvious of things. So he held out his hand confidently.

"Detective Lestrade" the man replied taking Sherlocks hand cautiously and shaking it. "How did you know all that?" 

"I didn't, I simply observed." 

"Yeah… Donovan?" Its he spoke into his radio "It's Lestrade, the mugging we were called out to new evidence points to a kidnapping, I need you and Anderson to get down here now." When he was finished, he focused his attention once more to Sherlock, who was staring at the body again, eyes darting around quickly. 

Later after a few more cases, Lestrade discovered Sherlocks little habit, and had explained to him very clearly, that if he ever wants to be involved in another case, he needed to get clean, and soon. The newly born consulting detective chose the more reasonable path and went cold turkey. Alone. As he suffered through the withdrawal side affects he would think bitterly, I've went through everything else alone, why not this to? When Lestrade finally let him take on small cases, he instantly began feeling a rush again. 

But now he had nothing to keep the emotions at bay, and they hit him hard. One night as he was laying on his sofa in his signature pose, he was over come with a wave of grief. It came out of nowhere and threatened to swallow him up as the pressure in his chest grow so bad he was half expecting it to burst at any moment. He stood swiftly, and almost ran to his small bathroom. He ripped the door open and went straight to the shower, turning on the cold water. In the past few months, he learnt an arctic temperature shower could help to numb feelings. As he was stripping, his hand subconsciously passed over his eye, it came away wet. He hadn't cried since he was a little boy.

Frantic now, he had hopped into the shower, tensing at the sudden temperature drop. His tears faded to nothing, and the pressure disappeared, but the pounding in his head never ceased. He held his hands over his ears and squeezed the sides of his head as he kneeled down on the shower floor. Eyes staring at nothing. When his vision came into focus he realized he had been staring at a small razor blade, that hand fallen onto the floor from the shelf. He soon found out that drugs weren't the only thing that could keep the emotions locked up.

Now, years later, as he lay in his bed in 221B, he wanted nothing more than to have never found the blade. Wincing at the old memorize, he slowly sat up, mindful of his arm and got out of bed. Shuffling to the closed door, he mentally prepared himself for what this terrible day had to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like this... I'm thinking on writing more stories as the year goes on.


	3. Comfort

Closing the door lightly, sherlock tip toed his way through the kitchen, peering around cautiously. 

As he entered the living room, his eyes fell on Johns sleeping form. He had fallen asleep curled up on the sofa, his knees pulled up to his chest. As he approached, he noticed John shiver, he pulled off the afghan from the chair and laid it gently across his friend. Turning back towards his room he paused as he heard John yawn and shift. Damn

"Sherl-" John said but was cut off by another yawn. 

"Yes?" he responded innocently, mockingly cheerful. Turning he saw that at this point, John was very much awake. Sitting up, John motioned and patted the spot beside him on the sofa. As Sherlock flopped himself down, he noticed Johns soft expression and thought maybe this talk wouldn't end as bad. 

"Why?" John asked simply. The detective began avoiding his eye.

"It… helps."

"Helps what, Sherlock?" The blond shifted a bit closer.

"The emotions!" Sherlock snapped. "I want them out! They're always there, mocking me, taunting me, and if I can't have the drugs…" he trailed off. Johns eyebrows shot up. Oh… he thought, pieces falling into place. Placing an arm around Sherlock, he gently pulled the detective towards him. Sherlock went tense before relaxing into Johns side. 

"Sherlock, its alright to feel emotions sometimes, you can't keep them bottled up or they can get to be too much." The young man pressed his forehead into Johns shoulder, into the soft jumper that smelled so comforting. 

"It hurts, John" he murmured. 

John was utterly shocked at this, Sherlock rarely showed any kind of emotion. Without thinking John pressed a light kiss on the detectives messy hair, feeling oddly protective over him suddenly. He pulled Sherlock closer and held him for what seemed like hours.

"We're going to get through this Sherlock, it will be okay," he said eventually. Removing his arm, he twisted around to look at the other man. "Come to me from now on when you feel like you need to… you know." He received an unsure nod.

"You mean… you're not going to leave?" The younger man looked absolutely lost.

"Of course not, I didn't leave when I found that bloody head in the fridge! Why on earth would you think this would push me to leave?" He only received a shrug as a response. 

That hadn't occurred to him, and he quickly relaxed back into the sofa cushions. 

"Sherlock, know that if you ever want to talk to me about anything, you can. I will always listen." He places a hand on Sherlocks knee. "I'm not going anywhere."

This is going too smoothly, wheres the shouting? Wheres the anger? Sherlock was too shocked to even blink, he just stared at his friend. For the first time since university, someone had rendered the great Sherlock Holmes speechless. 

"Budge over" John grunted, as he slid between the sofa back and Sherlock, who still looked extremely confused. John shifted so Sherlock could rest his head on Johns chest as a pillow, Johns back against the arm rest. When he settled, he wrapped his arms around him. Half his body now leaning into John, he looked up at him as if to ask What now…?

John read his eyes. "Now, tell me about something." 

"Like what…?" The detective asked perplexed.

"Anything you'd like" Ah. Mindlessly, Sherlock began prattling on about the last case and then about a case similar to it from years ago. As he talked, he went from cases to situations. Happy ones, sad ones, even pointless ones he was positive he had deleted. He didn't even realize it at the time, but it helped. Only, it didn't crush his dreaded emotions, it satisfied them. He relaxed more and more and could actually feel the pressure and anxiety leaving his mind as the doctor stoked his hair and listened. 

Later, when he would look back at that moment, he would swear that something had changed. It was like finding a new solution to his problem. Though this one was healthy and was a short army doctor. He grinned, slightly amused.

He hoped John knew what he had gotten himself into.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic to be transferred from FF to AO3! Hope you enjoy, ignore any spelling mistakes...


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